


Cinq

by DarchangelSkye



Category: Canadian Idol RPF, Canadian Music RPF, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Dreams, Ficlets, Homophobic Language, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Racism, Subreality, Wakes & Funerals, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Written in 2009, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-08
Updated: 2010-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarchangelSkye/pseuds/DarchangelSkye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The setting in ficlet 2 is borrowed from the 1996 version of <i>Romeo + Juliet</i>, while the setting for ficlet 4 is based on the Subreality City concept created by Kielle.livejournal.com (<a href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/subrealitycafe/">Yahoo!Groups</a> and <a href="http://www.fanhistory.com/wiki/Subreality">FanHistory</a> references as the main page appears to be offline)</p></blockquote>





	Cinq

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissoffools](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissoffools/gifts).



~*~  
_I wear this on my sleeve give me a reason to believe_  
Mookie is the last person they call. Years later, he'll hate them for that.

It was a freak accident, everyone said- bad brakes plus that tricky edge of the road hardly anyone pays mind to until it's too late. But Mookie doubts that's the kind of blaze of glory Earl intended.

CTV first airs the news, no surprise, the Earlybirds weren't big yet but a death always is, and it isn't long before _both_ fucking MTVs pick it up, giving more exposure than anyone could ever dream of. Not fair, not fair.

The only thing Mookie remembers about the funeral is wanting to throw his ring into the gravesite, but he's seen too many bad movies to fall for that one anymore.

Being a grieving widower or troubled musician means you're subjected to a lot of interviews, and Mookie is no exception, politely nodding through all of them while on a haze of uppers and downers. He only walks out on one, on the guy who starts babbling that Earl could be even bigger in his wake, citing Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison and Ian Curtis and Mookie knows there are other names, but Earl was never supposed to be another Jeff fucking Buckley.

The other Earlybirds rope him in to finish the album recording, he knowing the material better than anyone else. But live shows are out of the question, something Mookie discovers as he stumbles off the FolkFest stage after three songs, wanders for a bit and throws up on the sidewalk. It's moments like those when he wants to go back to Lloydminister, dig up the fresh patch of dirt with his own bare hands until his nails are cracked and bleeding, and scream at Earl how the fuck could he do this to everybody, he was supposed to live forever.

But Mookie has no rage left in him, no fight. All that has been buried with the only person he'll ever love.

The album is finally released six months later than first intended; a solemn black sleeve embossed with an eagle in the lower corner, all spiritual-looking and shit. The songs are finished from demo recordings and Mookie's noodling, and the final cut is a faded, scratchy sample punctuated with that unmistakable laugh, the one that will never die. Each man is only as good as what he leaves behind, something Mookie reflects on as he takes one pill after another.

It's closure; Mookie's still waiting for his.

~*~  
_shall I hear more, or shall I speak of this?_  
There are moments- few and far between, but moments nonetheless- that Mookie believes Earl has completely lost his mind. Kicking around the remains of the discarded theatre only exemplifies his theory. He asks himself who'd build a theatre on a beach in the first place, let alone let it go to ruins like this, but the older man's enthusiasm quells all questioning aloud.

"We'll make it better than before. Get some of the others down here- they're good with their hands- and once it's rebuilt, we'll have our own grand stage! People will come in droves, just like before everything changed, and-"

Mookie nods politely as Earl continues his monologue (becoming more of a soliloquy at this point) and stoops to pluck something off the ground. It's a pamphlet brittle and yellowed with age, and he makes out "erona Beac" before dropping it again. He wipes his hand on his jeans.

Earl turns to face the younger man, the light in his eyes dancing with inspiration, or something more. "You've said nothing, Mook."

Mookie cracks a smile and digs in his pocket for where he's left his vial. "I'd say the effects of ol' Queen Mab have yet to dissipate," he intones and rolls a pill between his fingers.

Earl holds to the young man's shoulders, his gaze almost fierce. "You think of me a fool; I can see it without you having to say a word. But is there not a fool who has never possessed hope?"

By then Mookie already has the pill clenched in his teeth, and another clenching of guilt wracks at his stomach. Was it not Earl's spontaneous spirit to bring them together in the first place? It's not like he had protested at the idea to drive to this beach, even if the dilapidation had left him with the severe shakes.

If anyone believes he can build back what once was, it's Earl.

"Hold your trust in me," he whispers and leans in for a gentle kiss, even as the move bites along half the pill.

~*~  
_the truth comes in pieces, and everyone gets one (just not the piece they wanted)_  
The bandages will be off in a couple weeks, and as long as Mookie does all the exercises the physical therapist showed him, he'll be back to moving around as normally as before.

Normal, as if that's something he'll ever feel again, like it's just a scraped knee to get over. Like roaming groups of punks are always waiting for any member of a persecuted minority to leave a store so they can pounce and kick and shove and basically dehumanize (in the twilight, no less, cowards) their victim, just another inconvenience, la la la.

Earl intones over and over that it's his fault, he should've been there, he'd've fought everyone off, but Mookie just keeps reminding him that he's not anyone's guardian, and the issue is dropped until next time.

All the same, Mookie covers the mirror in their bedroom so he doesn't have to look at himself.

It's not the scraped face that bothers him the most about that night. Nor is it the sprained ankle or sore ribs or cabbage-blossom bruises or black eyes, or that the only thing he can remember about his attackers is they were white and punks, narrowing the suspect list to about three million.

It's the fact one of them actually had the balls to spit on his face that makes him want to throw up. It's not bodily fluids that make Mookie disgusted; it's what they _mean_. Spit like that belongs in a sink or a gutter, not another human being's face.

Not that he's human to those punks. Just another "chink fag." Not the first time he's heard those words, won't be the last, but when your soul feels like it's been ripped away from you, how are you supposed to react?

Mookie tries to make believe he still has a shred of dignity, but after he finally has the nerve to look in a mirror after some weeks, his reflection appears to waver in and out, the spot on his cheek where the spit landed a radioactive glow.

Oh, the dignity will return, eventually. He is not a balloon, his holes will heal. But until then, it's all Mookie can do to pretend the tears in the mirror are just a figment of his imagination.

~*~  
_everything really is for sale_  
"This is, uh..."

"Weird?"

"Yeah, pretty weird." They stand shoulder to shoulder as they walk through the City, Earl with his nose in one of the books he's "borrowed" from the Collegium Library and Mookie trying not to have his eyes pop out of his head. The other citizens are a veritable Who's Who of anyone ever born or created, something just too freaky to process. "How long has this- city, dimension, whatever- _been_ here?"

"Ah, it's been like that ever since there've been Writers," Earl flips through the pages. (Talking like an old pro already, capitalizing everything necessary.) "It's just since the Internet things took a tangible shape and-" He gestures. "The population influx."

"Yeah." Mookie blinks and turns away so he can pretend he did _not_ just see Buffy and Angel walk by. Of course Earl isn't fazed, he's the one who apparently grew up on Roger Rabbit, so it'd be paradise to be surrounded by characters all the time, right? "And...it doesn't bother you?"

"Why would it?" Earl looks up from the book. "We get time off in between stories, the musicians have a bar all to themselves, and we even get our friends showing up- what's not to love?"

Mookie knows he can't make a scene in public. He grabs Earl by the wrist and drags him into the alley by the bar all the anime characters come in and out of.

"None of it's even _real_, that's what! We have no history but what's been made up for us, memories we never even experienced in the first place, not like the Mainstreams! Somebody just put pen to paper one day and poof, here we are- Earl, we're _puppets_." He holds to the other man's shoulders and figures he looks insane but doesn't care. "And what happens when the Writer gives up and forgets us? You want to become one of those half-faded ghost things? I can't live knowing that's my fate!" Mookie all but collapses in Earl's arms at this point. It _feels_ real, but he's not so sure anymore.

It's a long while before anyone speaks.

"There's no way you're fading away, Mook- 'less I'm going with you."

~*~

Mookie startles awake.

First there's fuzz, disorientation, before things finally stumble back into place and his ears finally pick up on dark, foreboding music coming from the TV speakers.

"Man, you suck at Movie Night, Mook."

The warm voice is reassuring and cuts through the haze. Mookie shifts his head further up Earl's leg and focuses back to the screen. A man is crawling into a box filled with broken glass. He's trying to remember if he's seen that box before, but only snippets of dreams float through his mind now. The particulars are fading away, and now he just wants to hold to Earl and never let go. That, and maybe get the car looked at and call the cops on that punk kid down the street who always gives them the evil eye. But for now, he just fumbles for the popcorn bowl.

"I don't think it counts as being scared if you sleep through the whole damn thing, y'know," Earl wisecracks.

Mookie just half-shuts his eyes and listens to the final strains of music and a defiant scream fade away from the TV.

"Hush your mouth. And I get to pick the next movie."

**Author's Note:**

> The setting in ficlet 2 is borrowed from the 1996 version of _Romeo + Juliet_, while the setting for ficlet 4 is based on the Subreality City concept created by Kielle.livejournal.com ([Yahoo!Groups](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/subrealitycafe/) and [FanHistory](http://www.fanhistory.com/wiki/Subreality) references as the main page appears to be offline)


End file.
